


Ritual Release

by moodymarshmallow



Series: The Elf and the Apostate [15]
Category: Dragon Age
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 15:09:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/663413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moodymarshmallow/pseuds/moodymarshmallow





	Ritual Release

First his fingers, long and pale, slipped through the copper locks. Starting at the base of Theron’s skull, he carded through thick, well-maintained silk until he reached wispy tips that weighed no more than spiderweb. If the ends had begun to grow wild, he would blunt them evenly with his razor, chiding Theron for his vanity even while he drew the blade across the strop so it would be fine and sharp for shaving his face in the morning. He always began with his hands, dragging feather-light fingertips over Theron’s scalp. If there had been a braid, he unwound it, but otherwise he just slid his hands through Theron’s lovely hair. 

If Theron was patient, Anders would urge him into his lap. One arm would drop to encircle his slim waist, and Anders would kiss the back of his neck when he leaned his head forward. Though time was precious, there was always enough for tiny intimacies, for fingers entwining and body weight shared while they shook off the dust of the day. They could have done nothing but drink ale and play cards, but there were always these moments of ritual release. 

As with everything, Theron had taken time to acclimate, to learn that the proper answer to “Would you like me to brush your hair?” was not “I can do it myself.” He had bitten his tongue when Anders explained that he just wanted to be close to him, mentally calling the creators to save him from the indirect, foolish fancies of human men. But seeing that he fancied—perhaps foolishly—this particular human man, he indulged him, and quickly found that he enjoyed the soothing massage of another’s hands in his hair, but only because those hands belonged to Anders. 

When there was a chill in the air—an often enough occurrence in Amaranthine—Anders would first light the fire and throw the quilt over a chair in front of the slow-growing flames. He remembered his mother doing the same, but his mind was elsewhere while he let the blanket soak up some warmth, taking a few minutes to wash his face and study his chin in the cloudy mirror. Theron always stepped in just like a deer, tentative and light, but Anders had long since learned to listen to the latch rather than a footfall, and as soon as Theron was in the room he would wrap him up in the warm quilt and shuffle him to the bed, unable to stop himself from planting a kiss on his cheek or his ear. There could be more, depending on how Theron responded. If he wrested himself from Anders’ grip, flushed and smiling, they would make love under the quilt until their sweaty skin demanded the ambiant chill, but often he only sat in Anders’ lap, small, content, and peaceful. 

With what little money he had, Anders bought combs from a shop in Amaranthine. The shopkeeper, a sturdy woman with ruddy cheeks and too many young children running wild in the yard, was convinced that Anders was seeking the affections of the barmaid at The Crown and Lion. Though the barmaid was a pretty girl with chestnut hair that nearly reached her waist, Anders would not admit to any wooing no matter how often the shopkeep winked and wondered while selling him her wares. 

Out of all of them, Theron preferred the comb of polished wood, as Anders had suspected he would. It was nothing special, not even Ironbark, though it was lacquered and shiny and slid through Theron’s hair without struggle. Anders had a fondness for the one from Tevinter, ivory with gold inlay, though he suspected it was bone rather than true ivory, for the price he had paid for it. Whatever the material, they were laid carefully in the nightstand drawer, waiting for Anders to pluck them out. 

“You are a strange man,” Theron said once while they sat in comfortable silence, Pounce purring in Theron’s lap. He stroked the cat and Anders stroked the elf, combing his hair while the hurricane lamps flickered dimly throughout the room. 

“I’ve been told that before—by you.” 

“I don’t think it’s a bad thing.” 

“All the more fortunate for me then. Why am I strange this time? Is it because I accused Nathaniel of wearing knickers? Or is it that I lit that bush on fire? I told you, Sigrun wouldn’t stop asking.” Anders paused, his hand and the comb midair. 

“You don’t need to take care of me.” 

“I didn’t think I was. I rather thought I was being intimate with my lover.” 

Theron’s ears turned a particularly attractive shade of pink, and he dropped the subject entirely. However, the next time Anders asked him if he wanted his hair combed, he said he’d like that, and by the grin on Anders’ face, he knew he finally found the right answer. 


End file.
